


Chase the Sky

by Anonymous



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Space, Angst, Astronauts, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mutual Pining, NASA, Pining, Romance, Space Flight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 15:38:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8214580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "No, I'm serious. What the fuck are you thinking?""I need--," Harry shook his head. "I need to get away.""Then you go to fucking Thailand and rent out an island, Harry, you don't launch yourself into space."Or.. the one where Louis is an astronaut, and Harry is a pop star, and the moon seems like a suitable place to mend a broken heart.





	1. Chapter 1

 

It seemed like just another crazy adventure, at least at first.

Harry Styles made it approximately eight point five seconds into his first medical appointment with a NASA physician before he realized he might have bitten off a wee bit more than he could chew.

"You'd like me to what now?"

The doctor raised one brow and glanced pointedly at Harry's boxers.

"Well okay, but you could have at least bought me a drink first."

 _Note to self,_ Harry thought much later. _NASA physicians have zero sense of humor._

That was bad, but not nearly the nosedive straight to hell that was Harry’s first meeting with his trainer--the man who would either prepare him for space or kill him trying.

"Hi." Harry thrust out a hand, an undeniable pinch of interest warming his middle. The trainer was shorter than him by a few inches, with a very compact yet deadly sort of vibe, but it was his face that had no doubt caused a traffic jam or two. "I'm Harry."

The trainer's eyes flicked slowly from Harry's boot-clad feet to his face, skimming over the loose waves of his hair before narrowing in disdain somewhere in the vicinity of his forehead. "Are you now."

Harry's smile faltered but he held steady. "Last I checked my passport, yeah."  When the man finally took his hand, Harry barely concealed a wince at the too-firm grip.  _Compact but deadly._

 

"Louis," the trainer said before turning on his heel and sauntering away. "I wouldn't unpack if I were you," he tossed over his shoulder.  
...

"He's a fucking prima donna." Louis Tomlinson was fed the fuck up. He had worked for _years_ to get where he was in the space program, and this was it. His moment. His time to shine. He had finally been appointed the physiotherapist on the first manned mission to the moon in decades, and some pretty boy pop star was appearing at the twelfth hour, just in time to screw it all the fuck up. He had paced his office ranting until Niall—the botanist who was determined to bring back enough moon soil to grow a flower so he could call them, unironically, moonflowers—had dragged his ass to their favorite dive, just to shut him up.

Niall snorted. "You spent all of ten seconds with him."

"Long enough." Louis threw back the last of his beer and signaled to the waitress for another. "What did I do to deserve this again?"

"Well. You pissed off Commander Johnson when he caught you kissing his son in the hangar deck, crashed a forty million-dollar fighter jet you weren't even supposed to be test piloting, and told a visiting senator he was two deuces shy of a shitpile." Niall counted off the transgressions on one hand. 

Louis briefly considered beaning him with a peanut shell. Unfortunately it was all true. "Busy year," he smirked.

Niall bumped his shoulder. "C'mon. It won't be so bad, right? I mean, you're still on the mission. We're still going to the moon. The moon!"

Louis grinned, Niall's enthusiasm infectious. They had worked hard for this. Fast friends from their very first day at the Air Force Academy, a shared love of Real Housewives of Orange County and mimosa's had gotten them through some pretty rough times. Organic Chem, for one. And basic training. And the first day of zero-gravity training (which Niall had dubbed Day of the Nearly Dead).

Louis’ smile faded when he thought about the glittery boots their celebrity guest had been wearing that morning. "His damn shoes probably cost more than a month of my salary."

Niall swapped Louis' beer for a shot glass. "It's a new frontier, my friend. Those boots and others like'em are what's gonna keep us in the stars." He threw back his tequila with a leer. "Literally."

Now it was Louis’ turn to snort. "Pass." But he reached for the glass and drank.

...

"Fuck me," Harry moaned, falling onto the mattress. It was day nine, but it might as well be day one for all his body had adapted to the grueling pace. He _hurt_. There wasn't a muscle or joint that wasn't crying. Even his wrists were sore. He rolled gingerly to his back and exhaled slowly through his  nose. So much for that whole date with his right hand thing he'd been looking forward to all day; he couldn't even muster up the energy to rake the sweaty hair off his forehead.

The thing was—he was in shape. _Good_ shape. He had performed more than 200 shows in the past year, for thousands of fans—no easy feat! It was grueling and exhilarating and he _still_ found time to work out with his tour trainer and play a spot of tennis and oh! Golf whenever they stopped for any length of time during daylight hours in a place that had a remotely playable course!

He was fit, dammit.

His dick twitched in sympathy as his thoughts tiptoed around the source of his mounting frustration.

 _Louis_.

Or, as Harry liked to call him,  _The Bastard._

He was a tyrant. A heartless, overbearing, arrogant, maddening, sarcastic, beautiful tyrant.

Harry wanted to stab him repeatedly.

He also wanted to strip him naked and do unspeakable things to his body, but he blamed his own masochistic personality tendencies for that. The pure, unadulterated want that curled low in his belly every time Louis cursed Harry's piteous state of physical fitness or lack of hand-eye coordination was embarrassingly persistent. Harry was scheduling an appointment with a therapist as soon as possible.

But first he had to crawl to the shower.

He groaned again as he rolled off the bed, every cell weeping as he padded to his tiny private bath. He stripped naked, muscles stiff, sighing in relief when he finally made it under the pounding hot water. He would cry, but he had already sweated out every available molecule of moisture.

He decided to fall into bed and sleep until December, fuck the space program, fuck the $1.2 million dollars he had clearly wasted, fuck the wiry, sadistic—and yet still so very hot—asshole reducing him to jelly on legs every single day.

His stomach growled.

"No," he said tersely to the hazy reflection in the mirror. "Absolutely not. Are you nuts?" He shook his head when the Harry in the mirror stared silently back, green eyes all too knowing. "Oh, fuck off."

...

The spoon didn't look heavy, but damn if Harry could will his arm to bring it to his mouth. He was so hungry. So so hungry. He glared at the spoon and growled.

"It's just a little spoon," Niall laughed, plopping his tray down beside Harry's. "What has it ever done to you?"

Harry grimaced. "It's made of lead. Plutonium." He stared at it dolefully. "Something really, really dense."

Niall chuckled and began to shovel in his food at an alarming (and frankly, envious) rate. "Soreness eases after a week or two." He winked. "Assuming you survive."

"Fuck me."

Niall laughed uproariously and slapped him on the back, blithely unaware of the ripples of pain the gesture caused. "You're holding up just fine, England. And uh," he leaned close to whisper conspiratorially in Harry's ear. "It's pissing Louis right off. So excellent work, there."

Harry perked up. "Really?" He glared at the spoon again, succeeding in dragging a healthy scoop of mashed potatoes to his mouth. _Ahhh, food_.

"Yup. And," Niall scraped a napkin across his mouth and stood. "Seeing as I have a fiver on you lasting the month, eat up. You'll need your strength."

Harry watched Niall’s bright blond head navigate the supper crowd to deposit his empty tray at the cleaning station.

They were betting on him.

 _Louis_ was betting on him. Against him.

The back of his neck prickled and he knew without a doubt that he was there, watching him. He was probably waiting for Harry to shuffle pitifully over to the trashcans and then disappear until morning, the way he had every night this week. He was probably loving every painful twitch of Harry's woefully un-NASA-like levels of fitness.

_The bastard._

Harry steeled his jaw and ate everything on his plate, and then faked an effortless glide across the cafeteria to dispose of his tray. He flirted shamelessly with a girl by the napkin dispensers and then with a boy by the drink station, nearly blacking out when he forgot the dire state of his body and casually flipped his long hair off his forehead, every muscle in his neck screaming in protest.

Less than twenty minutes later he fell into bed fully clothed and slept like the dead.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_“So tell me about him.”_

_“Who?”_

_“Whoever it is that has you trussed up tighter than Mum’s Christmas turkey.”_

_“No one,” Harry said, a shade too fast._

_“Does ‘No one’ reciprocate, baby brother? Or is this infatuation unrequited?”_

_“No one—” Harry rubbed his temples. “I’m not infatuated. Murderous, maybe.”_

_“Ooh, so he’s proper hot.”_

_“Shut up.”_

…

 

 

 

Louis blinked. Harry was already on the track.

The sun was just breaking the horizon, creamy pinks and golds sweeping the sky in an impressionist painting.

And Harry was here.

 _Fuck_.

Louis hesitated behind the bleachers, watching the other man’s legs keep rather gloriously perfect form as he ran. He was oblivious to his observer, his stupidly long curls streaming out behind him, his t-shirt already wet with sweat and the morning dew. He fucking glistened, and Louis hated his life.

He considered going back to bed and having Niall put Harry through the paces today.

Except he was pretty sure that would be considered forfeiture and no fucking way was he forfeiting. There were nearly nine hundred dollars in the pot now; he would break Harry or die trying.

When Harry slowed on his next lap, Louis stepped out from behind the bleachers.

“You’re still dropping your right shoulder,” he said, harsher than he intended. He swatted back a sharp bite of remorse when Harry’s surprised smile fell, and tried not to wonder if that brief dimple appearance was meant for him.

“I’ll work on it.” Harry didn’t stop, just effortlessly whirled around and continued down the track backwards, one brow raised mockingly. “Had a bit of a lie in this morning, did we?”

Louis saw red. And green green green and slick, hot limbs and—“Sprints. Now.”

Instead of groaning, the way he expected him to, Harry laughed, and the melodic, raspy sound smacked Louis right in the groin. 

“Yes, boss,” Harry winked, before cocking that damnable brow again. “Race you to the goal post?”

“You’re on—hey!”

Harry was off like a rocket, and Louis never had a chance.

…

“Liam, thank God.” Louis nearly knocked the other man over in a crushing hug.

Liam laughed and patted his back. “Lou. Can’t breathe.” When he finally pried him loose, he grinned. “Miss me?”

“Absolutely not,” Louis said, but he had. Oh, how he had. Liam Payne’s quiet sensibility was the perfect anecdote to Niall and Louis’(often foolish) joie de vivre, and Louis not so secretly (i.e. when spectacularly drunk or at Christmas) referred to him as his platonic soul mate. He grabbed one of Liam’s bags and walked with him to their shared apartment. “How was DC?”

Liam smiled. “Oh you know. Politicians are a dry sort, until you get them drunk.”

Louis wiggled his eyebrows exaggeratedly. “Any politician in particular you found less dry than the rest?”

“No. This was work, you know that.” Liam held the door (polite bastard) and Louis crossed the threshold first.

“Whatever,” Louis said airily, waving one hand over his head. “You never seemed to have a problem mixing business with pleasure before.” And, oh, he should have known. Would have yanked those words back and shoved them down his own throat if he could.

“Pot meet kettle,” Liam ribbed, ruffling Louis’ hair in that way he  _knew_ Louis hated. “Niall says—”

“Niall is full of shit and has been since Freshman Comp I, which you well know.”

“True, but I don’t remember Niall trying to murder a rock star in booty shorts before.”

Louis’ mouth flapped, embarrassingly fish-like. “Harry does not wear booty shorts!”

“Ah, so it’s true!” Liam crowed and Louis wanted to die. His stupid best friends. His stupid cunty best friends who knew him better than he knew himself, all the ways to rile him up and all the ways to drag him down.

They just usually didn’t team up against him in such a blatantly aggressive fashion. “And I’m not trying murder him.” Louis stalked to the refrigerator and pulled out two beers.

Liam propped one elbow on the bar and accepted the bottle. “Seriously though, you aren’t being a complete dick, right? I’d like to think my best boy has matured to the point he would behave professionally and do his job without resorting to childish pranks and foolhardiness towards a very generous benefactor.”

“Pollyanna,” Louis grinned at Liam’s careful speech and tipped his beer, draining half of it in one go.

Liam rolled his eyes. “So spill. What’s he like?”

“Tall.”

“Tall.” Liam snorted. “That’s it?”

“Mmm.” Louis shrugged, squinting as he considered. “He’s not in terrible shape. Could stand to do more strength training, particularly before we throw him into microgravity.”

“And he’s…” Liam waggled his eyebrows. “As pretty as his magazine covers?”

Louis tried to scowl but couldn’t. Ridiculous jackass. “He eats, sleeps, and sweats, just like the rest of us mere mortals, Li.”

“Hmm,” Liam hummed, taking another long drink. “I’d like to see the booty shorts, though.”

“Fucking get in line,” Louis muttered.

…

 _Yes._ Harry grinned, exuberant.

Tonight was the first time in a good long while he could wiggle into his skinny jeans without wanting to die.

Oh, he was still in pain, every muscle still protesting any movement that wasn’t lying down, but it was bearable. He was improving.

Louis hated it. Absolutely, one thousand percent, bitch-face loathed Harry’s perseverance. It was glorious and Harry was by God going out to celebrate. He wasn’t even worried about the fact that it was Niall who had invited him, or that Louis would most likely be in attendance. He was in total control of his accidental Louis-boners, thankyouverymuch.

He shifted himself in the tight denim when his dick shot him a twitchy reminder that any lingering thoughts of stupid blue eyes and girlishly long lashes were still enough to get him hot.

Harry shifted the hair out of his eyes, frowning at his tense reflection, forcing a long, slow inhale through his nose, chasing calm.

Honestly, if it were any other pretty boy, in any other facet of Harry’s strange and wonderful life, he would just hate fuck him and get it over with.

But… he really wanted this. Wanted to be on that ship, on his way to the moon, to be so far outside of where anyone else could or would go—he wanted that more than he wanted Louis’ dick, and if the current state of his crotch was the barometer, that was saying something.

So. He would lust from afar, on all the days he didn’t want to slip a little cyanide in Louis' water bottle, and keep his eyes on the prize.

Besides; next week was anti-gravity training, if Louis deemed him sufficiently ready, and then Harry would have won. Figuratively speaking. Since the anti-gravity chamber still might actually kill him.

…

The bar was a total dive. Peanut shells littering the floor, so dimly lit Harry was mildly afraid to look too close in any one direction lest he see something he would never be able to scrub from his brain, the music was so loud it vibrated his ribcage.

It was perfect.

He slid onto a dodgy-looking stool, silently lamenting his decision to wear white jeans. C’est la vie.

A girl slipped in beside him just as the bartender passed him a beer.

“Hi.” She smiled with even white teeth.

“Hi.” He waited, but no recognition flashed, no phone placed discreetly—or indiscreetly—for a selfie, no Sharpie marker thrust under his fingers for an autograph. He relaxed and took a drink. “Good night?”

“Now it is,” she batted her eyelashes, and oh, she was pretty, but unfortunately for her, the ill-timed flirtation coincided with two things: one—Niall spotted Harry and sent up a shrill whistle, fingers between his teeth, and two—Louis jumped on top of a table, hips gyrating obscenely to the opening bars of a song.

Harry was fucked.

“Excuse me,” he said faintly, stumbling off the stool and in the direction of his own personal self-defeating prophecy: a five-foot-nine-ish, gorgeously-irritating, devil in tight black jeans.

“Well well well,” Louis cackled, adorably tipsy, cheeks too flushed. “Look what the cat dragged in!” He hopped off the table and landed more or less steadily in front of Harry. “Harold, I would like you to meet my best friend. Liam Payne.”

Louis gave a little bow and Harry wanted to shove him into the nearest dark booth and _do things_ to the collarbones so prominently on display _._ He smiled at the handsome fellow standing directly behind Louis instead. “Hi.”

Liam pushed Louis aside. “It’s very nice to finally meet you.” His eyes flitted to Louis and back, mischief sparking the warm, brown color. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“And... that’ll be enough of that,” Louis protested cheerfully, squeezing his way between them again and turning his back on Harry. “Let’s drink!”

Harry missed Liam’s reply, because Louis’ taut little bum crowded right into the cradle of his hips, and all the previous pep talks to his dick flew out the window as his brain short-circuited. Louis wiggled in excitement when someone procured a bottle of tequila and Harry wished a few more brain cells a solemn good bye.  _Fare thee well_.

His hands hovered, fingers itching to grab those little hips and squeeze in possession. Or punishment. Or both.

But Louis bounced away and the moment passed, although Niall’s knowing smirk was enough to snap Harry back into reality. He stuck his tongue out at the blonde and cupped his hands around his mouth to be heard. “Where the fuck is this jar, Nialler? I want in!”

He dug a five-dollar bill from where he had stashed it in his front pocket, laughing at the steady chants of  _Har-ry Har-ry_ bracketing an equal number of  _Lou-is Lou-is_. He dropped the wrinkled bill in an absurdly large hurricane glass, shoving it into the mouth with great ceremony.

“Who you betting on, Haz?” Niall yelled.

Harry met Louis’ mocking gaze.  _The bastard_ , he thought fondly. “Me.”


	3. Chapter 3

_“So how much longer?”_

_“You mean until I’m a fully grown astronaut?”_

_“No, until you’re fully shagged.”_

_…_

 

 

 

“How’d he do?” Niall watched Harry launch himself out of the van, skin just shy of puce.

Louis wagged his palm back and forth. “Eh. Not bad enough to cut him. Puked five times.”

“Four,” Harry croaked, staggering a little until Liam caught his elbow.

“Feel up to a beer?” Liam asked with a sweetly teasing smile.

“Oh God.” Harry clapped a hand over his mouth and doubled over at the waist.

Louis chuckled. “Green’s a good color on you, Haz. Matches your eyes.” And, well, _fuck,_ just fuck it to hell and back, because that was too much and both Liam and Niall were now hooting at his beet red face. “Fuck off,” he grumbled, moving to grab the back of Harry’s neck and steer him toward the apartment complex, hoping he was too nauseated to pay any mind to Louis’ easy familiarity. “What you need is a hot shower and a cup of coffee. Or maybe tea? I’m partial to a nice cup of tea myself. My mum’s a Brit.”

Louis’ voice faded as he led Harry away and Niall glanced over to meet Liam’s eyes. “Well that was unexpected.”

Liam tapped his chin thoughtfully. “How do you feel about a little side wager?”

Niall grinned. “Now, Liam. I’m not usually one to meddle in people’s love lives…”

“Bullshit,” Liam snorted. “Fifty bucks says Harry caves first?”

Niall grabbed his hand and shook. “Piece of cake. Harry’s made of stronger stuff than you think.”

Liam cocked his head. “You’ve seen Louis’ ass, right?”

They ambled toward the entrance, lost in thought.

 “You know, I heard they might be fumigating Harry’s apartment. He could very well need a place to stay for the remainder of his training.”

“Really?” Liam asked in surprise.

“No, you nitwit,” Niall scoffed. “I’m trying to make things interesting.”

“Thought you didn’t meddle?”

“Shut up.”

…

“I’m dying. Donate my body to science, please.” Harry’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut, bottom lip between his teeth.

Louis had to swallow an urge to _bite_ the leafy tattoo peeking out from under Harry’s shirt. He also sent up a sincere and furtive prayer that erasing the picture of Harry’s long form sprawled across his sofa wouldn’t require some sort of ritual animal sacrifice. His neighbor had a cat, but he was actually rather fond of it. “Budge over.” He knocked his knee against one of Harry’s sock-clad feet. “Also, your feet stink.”

Harry opened one eye. “And who’s fault is that?” But he grudgingly lifted his legs, moaning pitifully as he did so, to let Louis slide underneath.

When Harry dropped his feet unceremoniously in his lap, Louis glanced at the ceiling in reproach. God apparently thought He was fucking _hilarious_.

  “Tea.” Harry waved a hand around sloppily, face still hidden in the crook of one elbow.

Louis sighed and leaned forward to grab the mug off of the coffee table. “If it’s gone lukewarm now, not my fault.” He guided the cup into Harry’s hand with a huff. “Do you need me to spoonfeed you too, princess?”

Harry peeked out from under his arm. “ _Everything_ is your fault. And no.” He leaned up on one elbow and gingerly sipped at the tea. “Although I might take a raincheck if it means you keep calling me that.”

“Oh sure, yeah. When hell freezes over,” Louis replied cheerfully, settling back against the cushions. “Remote’s by you.” He faltered when he realized there was no safe place to put his hands. After a moment of fidgety indecision, he rested his forearms across Harry’s shins.        

Harry grunted when he had to twist around to reach the remote, blanching at a particularly harsh twinge in his back. He turned on the TV and his arm thumped against his stomach.

“You can’t possibly still be sore. It’s been weeks!” Louis mocked, absolutely _not_ looking at the now even _wider_ strip of skin visible above Harry’s waistband. Idiot. _Why didn’t he buy longer shirts?_

“Says the prick that stands around all day yelling,” Harry muttered.

“Someone’s begging for another day of microgravity,” Louis murmured in reply. When he glanced over, Harry made a locking motion over his mouth, eyes twinkling. He snorted, then jerked in surprise when Harry’s foot shot straight out.

“Cramp,” Harry gritted between his teeth.

And, well, Louis couldn’t very well let him suffer, could he? Wouldn’t be very hospitable. Definitely wouldn’t win Louis any trainer of the year awards. Before he could look too closely at his motives, he used one hand to grab Harry’s foot and the other to hold his calf firmly against his own legs, stretching Harry’s toes backward until the cramp released.

Harry squirmed, cursing under his breath, and then practically purred when Louis began to gently massage the sore muscle. “Will you have my astronaut babies?” Harry exhaled, the sudden gust of air ruffling the curls around his face.

Louis rolled his eyes and moved his hands to the second leg to repeat the action. It would only cramp later otherwise. Probably. “Not if you were the last pop star on earth.”

“Harpy.”

“Brat.”

Harry wiggled contentedly when he was done, remembering the remote and flipping through the channels until he landed on a music video.

Louis shot him a dry look. “Seriously?”

“What? I like this song.” Harry batted his eyes so innocently Louis couldn’t help but laugh, shoving his legs from his lap and standing.

“I’m going to get you a Gatorade. And a banana.” He was still grinning when he ducked into the refrigerator, the Harry in the living room harmonizing with the Harry on TV, their rust-tinged voices filling the small apartment. “Fucking in love with himself,” he muttered under his breath. “Cheeky shit.”

When Liam and Niall finally made their way back an hour later, they found one slightly bitchy trainer cuddling the feet of one slightly ragged, snoring pop star, watching Titanic and eating a banana.

“Not a word,” Louis said without looking up.

Niall and Liam fist bumped behind his head.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_"So you hate him now."_

_"I do."_

_"Why don't I believe you?"_

_"Because you're a terrible sister."_

_"Hey, I'll have you know I'm the best sister you've got."_

_"You're my only sister."_

_"You don't hate him."_

_"I don't?" Harry's voice was slow and sad._

_"No, but I do."_

_..._

 

The last thing Harry remembered was Niall's face, or at least a distorted version of it, bright blond hair elongating like a funhouse mirror and then...nothing. When the world spun into focus again, he blinked rapidly, Niall's face replaced with Louis'—Louis, who was pulling the ear pieces of a bright pink stethoscope from his ears.

Harry very nearly fainted again. "What are you?" He groaned.

"Damn," Louis muttered, looking up at Niall and Liam. "Still alive."

"Very funny." Harry tried to sit up, grunting when the room swam.

"Easy there, pop star," Louis soothed him back to the mat, surreptitiously pressing two fingertips into Harry's wrist to count his pulse. Harry's stupidly long lashes dragged up and down as he fought his way back into consciousness, and they cast charming little shadows onto his flushed cheeks.

Not that Louis noticed.

"Why are you wearing that?" Harry swallowed, mouth dry. He made a fist with the the hand Louis was practically holding.  _Fuck_. "And doing  _that_?" He tried to jerk his arm away, but the movement was weak and his arm fell limply against his stomach.

"Juice," Louis said quietly, putting the earpieces back in and unceremoniously shoving the cold circle of metal under Harry's shirt.

"Hey," Harry protested weakly, trying and failing to squirm away.

"And grab a Gatorade out of the fridge!" Louis called to Liam's retreating back. "And a pack of crackers!" He frowned when Harry's mouth opened again. "Shh." He listened intently, moving the stethoscope across Harry's chest and stomach before sitting back on his haunches, eyes narrowed. "What did you eat today?"

"I asked you first," Harry rasped, and wished wholeheartedly the room would stop spinning.

"Styles."

"Tomlinson." Harry would laugh at Louis' absolutely furious expression, but it was kind of turning him on. "Niall made me oatmeal," he said finally.

"And did you eat the oatmeal?" Louis reached for his arm, providing an anchor as Harry wobbled up on an elbow.

Harry wrinkled his nose. "Fucking hate oatmeal."

Louis sighed. "Harry. It's Houston. It's like a billion degrees out there and you've been--" he stopped, raking a hand through his hair. His eyes narrowed. "How many miles did you run this morning? Before we started?"

"Eight."

" _Harry_."

"I drank water," Harry trailed off. Didn't he? He remembered being really hot, and then... not. He shook his head to clear it. "I think?"

Liam was back with a small bottle of orange juice, which Louis uncapped and practically shoved in Harry's mouth.

"Drink."

"Okay, okay," Harry grumbled, aborting a half-hearted attempt to grab the juice when Louis  _growled_ at him. He rolled his eyes and leaned forward to drink from the narrow opening, the angle awkward but the determined set to Louis' mouth stupidly beautiful.

His head swam again, but this time it wasn't what he would call unpleasant. He flinched when Niall pressed a cold compress against the back of his neck. "So." He ignored the shake in his fingers as he combed through his hair.

Louis, apparently, did not.

"Fucking spoiled _—”_ He shoved a cracker in Harry's mouth. “Eat this." He watched him sternly until he started to chew, sitting back on his heels when Harry seemed compliant.

Harry stared up at him, taking a second cracker. His head was starting to pound, just behind his eyes, and the thought of a nice, long nap sounded better and better. He just needed to figure out how he was going to get off this mat and back to his apartment without the use of his legs. "So are you going to explain the—" Harry gestured toward the stethoscope.

Louis looped the brightly hued cord around his neck and cocked a brow. "Got a problem with medical authorities, Harold?"

"No," Harry said slowly. "Let me know if one shows up and I'll be proper respectful."

Louis bit back a grin along with a wave of relief that the dullness in Harry's eyes was clearing. He jumped when Liam clamped a hand down on his shoulder.

"Don't let his terrible bedside manner fool you."

"Hey!" Louis protested half-heartedly, hoping no one had the audacity to check  _his_ pulse; he had damn near had a heart attack when Harry hit the floor.

Liam dodged the delayed jab at his thigh, laughing. "Dr. Tomlinson here is quite the educated little fucker."

"Ignore him, he's just jealous." Louis took the cap off the Gatorade and handed it to Harry with a pointed look at the half-eaten cracker in his hand.

Harry swallowed the cracker before taking the bottle. "Doctor?" He whispered, his face the picture of weary defeat.

Liam snorted, covering it in a cough when Louis jabbed his leg again.

"Not like, medical doctor no. Although Liam has been known to introduce me as Dr. Tomlinson to score—"

"Okay then!" Liam clapped his hands together. "Let's all go have lunch. Yeah? Yeah." He turned and marched across the gym floor, a chuckling Niall on his heels.

Harry took a long drink of the sports drink, brows drawn together in a frown.

Louis didn't think it was cute. At all. "What now?"

"Nothing."

"No something. Spit it out, pop star."

"If not medical doctor, then...?"

Louis rolled his eyes and sat back down, resigning himself to having this conversation. "PhD in Kinesiology with an emphasis in exercise physiology. I was going to go to medical school but then—anyway. I'm the, uh." His picked at a pull in the fabric of his joggers. "The resident medical expert on the mission."

Harry carefully recapped the Gatorade and lowered himself to the mat.

When he remained there, staring up at the ceiling, Louis cocked his head. "You all right?"

"I just need a minute," Harry mumbled.

"Why?"

Harry shot him a black look.

Tucking his tongue firmly in his cheek, Louis waved the end of the the stethoscope in the air between them. "Do I need to, uh, check your vitals some more?"

"Please shut up," Harry groaned, clapping a hand over his eyes. He jumped when Louis slapped his thigh.

"Get up, Harold. I need to feed you."

"Oh God," Harry whispered, but he let Louis drag him to his feet.

...

Louis slapped his hands away from the trays and silverware. "Go sit down, I've got this."

"It's useless to argue with him," Liam advised. "He'll do what he wants anyway, and make a huge scene to humiliate you in the process."

"Ah ha ha, but there's no need for a scene," Louis smirked, tossing several pieces of silverware on his tray. "Harry took care of that when he face planted in the gym."

"Oh right. Now I remember why I don't like you," Harry said with his mouth distinctly downturned.

"Stop pouting and go sit down." Louis shoved him.

"Jesus, okay. Prick." Harry narrowly missed stumbling over a balding man in a very spiffy and official-looking suit. "Oh! No, not you, sir. Um, have a nice day!" He smiled sweetly.

He ignored the familiar cackle behind him and vowed not even a hundred stethoscopes were enough to make up for the fact that Louis was a asshole.

...

"I can't eat all of that."

"You can."

"I'm not hungry." Harry tried to put a bowl of cantaloupe on Louis' tray.

Louis put it back. "Eat the melon, Haz."

"I hate you."

"I hate you more. Now eat the melon."

Harry speared one of the pale orange cubes, screwing his eyes shut while he chewed.  _God, he hated cantaloupe_.

"And the soup."

"It's a hundred and fifty degrees outside."

"You need the salt."

Louis leaned far past the barrier of what Harry liked to call Maximum Safe Bastard Distance and used his own utensil to push a spoonful of soup against Harry's lips.

Harry wanted to die. He wanted to fuck Louis on top of this goddamn table, right smack in the middle of the cantaloupe and craisins, and then he wanted to die.

He opened his mouth.

...

"I have a very nice bed in my very own apartment. NASA approved."

"You're not sleeping alone, Harold." Louis' mouth worked when he realized what he had just said. "I mean—" He stopped long enough to slap a red-faced and hooting Niall on the back of the head. "You're fine. All better, I'm sure, and—God, Niall will you shut up."

"Lord, Lou, you should see your face."

Louis grabbed Harry by the elbow and dragged him toward the kitchen. "You can sleep on our couch. You slept on our couch before, remember? You liked it."

"It gave me a crick in my neck," Harry said carefully. A determined Louis was a cute Louis and really just fuck his whole life. A part of himself (that he hated, to be honest) wished he had fainted weeks ago, just to get this glimpse of the protective, bossy, foolishly endearing trainer.

"But you slept well, and I have plenty of juice and—"

"Lou," Harry interrupted, reaching out to squeeze his forearm. "Okay."

Louis frowned. "Okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Harry shrugged. "I mean, I'm kind of tired of fighting you."

Louis appreciated the lilt of humor in his voice, but the slight pallor in Harry's skin added to his already enormous guilt. "Okay."

"Okay."

They stared at each other for a beat.

Harry jumped when Louis reached up to hold something against his mouth. His eyes crossed when he tried to focus on it. "Lou— _umph_."

Louis shoved a thermometer between his teeth. "Don't talk with your mouth full," he winked. He grabbed Harry's wrist, the pads of his fingertips unerringly finding his pulsepoint. It fluttered for a second, a shade too fast, before settling into a steady rhythm.

He ignored the lazy slide of Harry's lashes, up and down, and the way his dimple just barely creased his cheek as he held back a smile.  

When the thermometer beeped, he retrieved it, grunting in satisfaction. "Ninety-nine."

Harry bit his bottom lip. "Are we playing doctor, then?"

"Anndd... that's my cue," Niall quipped, grabbing his keys from the counter. "I'll be back with pizza at six. Have a meeting with Johnson in an hour."

"Supreme, extra cheese!" Louis called, eyes narrowing on Harry's face. "And no. We are not."

"Coulda fooled me," Harry muttered when Louis manhandled him toward the hallway. He froze when they stopped in front of a door. "I thought I was sleeping on the couch."

"When your temperature is normal, you can sleep on the couch." Louis opened the door on a sparsely furnished room, a little messy and worn, but mostly clean. "Don't be getting fresh on my new sheets," he said before he shoved Harry over the threshold.

"Lou—"

Louis pressed his palm to Harry's mouth, eyes exasperated and maybe a little fond. "Harry if you don't strip down and climb in that bed right now, I'm going to do it for you." His mouth twisted in a wry smile. "And I think we both know that way lies madness."

Harry's eyes widened; so they were acknowledging this. Okay.  _Okay_. He could deal with that, he could. It didn't have to change a thing. It wasn't like he didn't know Louis' eyes occasionally lingered on his butt a little too long, or bounced from his crotch to his mouth when he thought Harry wasn't paying attention. Or—oh hell. He pressed his lips to Louis' palm, grinning when he jerked it away. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It is," Louis said, the words clipped and harsh. His eyes softened when Harry recoiled slightly. "Look—" he scrubbed a hand through his hair. "In a perfect world, we work. I know that as well as you do. But this?" He gestured over his head. "In this world, I have a really important job to do and you, frankly, are an annoying thorn in my side that prevents me from doing it."

Harry could feel his cheeks heating, and he stiffened. "I'm sorry."

Louis sighed, but before he could explain, Harry closed the door in his face.

Well. That could have gone better.

Louis went back to the kitchen and fixed himself a glass of ice water, patently not thinking about the extremely appealing cause of his sexual frustration lying (probably naked) in his bed.

"Fuck my life," he muttered before drinking the entire glass in one go.

It wasn't as effective as a cold shower, but since removing all clothing was absolutely not an option right now, it would have to do. 


	5. Chapter 5

_“When does Zayn get there?”_

_“Today.”_

_“Thank God.”_

_Harry snorted. “You don’t even like Zayn.”_

_“He tried to steal my boyfriend!”_

_“Just that once!”_

…

 

Louis was a terrible person in a former life. Clearly. It was the only explanation as to why karma insisted on torturing him repeatedly in this one.

Like right now, for instance, as Harry’s towel clad ass shimmied around his kitchen, singing—fucking _singing—_ at seven a.m. on a Saturday morning, miles of skin scrubbed petal pink and gleaming and honestly just fuck everything.

Everything.

“You’re up early.” Louis winced when Harry whipped around, the knot of the towel slipping off the dip of his goddamn beautiful hips. _I will not look I will not look I will not—_

“Morning.” Harry’s smile was tentative, endearingly awkward, and Louis remembered _oh, right,_ they were sort of fighting. The previous night’s dismal shutdown at the bedroom door had apparently been obliterated from Louis’ mind by the tragically perfect curvature of Harry’s naked back.

Harry gestured wildly with an empty cup, blessedly catching the towel and hitching it higher before Louis’ entire universe dissolved into chaos. “Coffee?”

Louis scrambled through the fog clouding his brain. _Words. There were words there a minute ago._ “Um.”

Harry cocked his head. “Or juice? You have juice.” He turned and opened the refrigerator door, bending over, the angle _really_ fucking indecent, and Louis hoped karma would appreciate how much she could fuck right off a cliff.

“No!” He screwed his eyes shut, praying furtively for world peace and clothed pop stars. Not necessarily in that order. “No juice,” he added weakly.

What he had come to the kitchen for, specifically, was juice.

“What do you mean no juice?” Liam asked, appearing out of nowhere to slap him on the shoulder, cheery and bright and dressed for a run. “You always have juice. Mornin’ Harry.”

“Morning.” Harry’s smile could power six city blocks and Louis had to reach deep, deep within to restrain the urge to fling himself from the balcony.

 Totally oblivious to Louis’ predicament, Liam accepted a cup of coffee from their resident pop star and their morning chatter continued somewhere over Louis’ head.

And as they talked, leaning on the counter and laughing, their words buffered Louis from his sudden existential crisis, which centered—mostly—around where _he_ might get some of Liam’s towel immunity, because honestly. Harry was in a towel. _A towel._  In their kitchen.

In a towel.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said to no one.

He didn’t know if he was relieved or irritated when they ignored him.

…

“Okay, Axel Rose, put your tits away.” Louis’ sharp quip was rewarded with a bony elbow in his left side. “Ow!”

“Wanker,” Harry muttered, throwing Louis a downright evil smirk as he toyed with another button on his wild floral shirt, slipping the pearly circle from it’s stitched opening. “Oops.”

 _For fuck’s sake_ , Louis cursed inwardly. Harry might as well not even be wearing a shirt, it barely covered his stupid torso, the pretty fabric as sheer as gossamer wings. “This is a press conference, Harold. Not a photo shoot for GQ,” he added stiffly, fidgeting on the folding metal chair. The idiot was half clothed and smelled like sin. Louis wanted to eat him.

“Says the guy who spent thirty minutes doing his hair.”

Louis scowled. So he had hair requirements. Sue him. He resisted the urge to brush a damp palm over his dress blues. He looked good, he knew he did, the formal uniform fitting like a glove. He had maybe expected some sort of reaction from Harry, this being the first time he’d seen Louis in anything other than his usual trainer chic or jeans, but he hadn’t so much as blinked when Louis had emerged from his room earlier.

Of course, Louis thought morosely, Harry was probably used to being surrounded by beautiful people in beautiful clothes, so why on earth would a NASA physiotherapist in formal service wear rank as even a blip on his radar.

Fuck his life.

Harry interrupted Louis’ descent into a proper funk when he sat straight up, smile blazing and hand waving exuberantly at the crowd.

Louis would have scoffed at his total lack of cool, except that it was stupidly charming. “Fan club arrive?”

Harry rolled his eyes, catching Louis off guard when he reached for his hand and gave it a hard squeeze. “No, Zayn is here. Look!” He lifted their hands and pointed, expression turning devious when Louis scrambled to yank his arm away.

Louis could only sputter as the big oaf overpowered him, waving their hands at a laughing dark-haired man in the audience. “Harry,” he hissed, ears burning. He crossed his arms and tried to appear professional. Nonchalant. He hummed the opening bars to Beethoven’s Fifth to calm his rapid heart.

Harry sighed, oblivious. “I’m so glad he made it.”

“Boyfriend?” And really. Louis could bite off his fucking tongue.

Harry laughed and grabbed his chest, right over his heart. “Bullseye, Jesus.”

“What?”

Harry shook his head, his expression suspiciously fond. “You really don’t know anything about me, do you?”

Louis fidgeted, feeling stupid and uncharacteristically apologetic. “Not really, no.” He frowned. “I didn’t exactly think I’d be babysitting pop stars instead of doing my actual job when I accepted my position on this mission.” Harry’s flinch was barely perceptible, but Louis felt it nonetheless. “Harry—”

“No. You’re right.” Harry’s carriage was stiff, his fingers toying with the open front of his shirt, pulling the edges of the placket together, hiding the ink that danced across his skin, a self-conscious move that pierced Louis’ heart. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry this has been such a burden for you.”

Louis let the full weight of his own asshole-ish behavior blanket him, knowing he deserved it. Harry had been nothing but game, this entire time, doing whatever he asked, even cheekily meeting him halfway, recognizing Louis’ tendency to take himself—and everything else about this godforsaken place—far too seriously. And the thing was, it _hadn’t_ been a burden—outside of the unrelenting threat of ill-timed boners and the occasional icy shower. Hell, most of the time it had been _fun,_ and there hadn’t been many assignments in Louis’ career about which he could say the same _._ Harry was hopeless and awkward and hilariously intense about beating Louis at his own game, and Louis had never looked forward to five a.m. wakeup calls more.

Maybe it was time to tell Harry the truth. Not all of it (Louis would sooner go to his grave than admit all of it) but enough so that Harry’s eyes regained some of their usual sparkle, and if Louis was really, really lucky, a dimple or two.

“You’re not a burden,” he said quietly, going for simple and short, elegant prose not being his fortitude. “Sometimes I’m a dick.”

Harry snorted, clapping a hand over his mouth. His eyes danced with mirth, a splash of affection mixed in with the surprise, and Louis felt a band of warmth tighten across his chest. It was going to be all right.

He was saved from continuing when the head of NASA took the stage.

Show time.

…

 “Louis, this is my bandmate, Zayn. Zayn, Louis.” Harry was fidgeting and nervous and it was cute as hell. _He_ was cute as hell, in his tragically patterned shirt, his dimples on permanent, happy display.

Louis tried to salvage the last scraps of his own dignity and shook the man’s hand as firmly and professionally as possible. “Good to meet you.” He hoped it sounded sincere; of fucking _course_ Harry’s friend would be obnoxiously good looking, with deep, dark eyes rimmed by lashes for days, and a coif that left Louis grudgingly envious.

Zayn smiled back, covering Louis’ hand with both of his. “And it is _really_ good to finally meet you.”

Louis faltered under the intensity of his gaze, eyes darting to Harry for help.

Harry stepped neatly between them. “Zayn. Stop before he melts.” He grinned down at Louis, patting his cheek when he remained dazed. “You all right?”

“I think so,” Louis exhaled, shaking his head. “What the fuck.”

Harry chuckled, warm fingers encircling Louis’ wrist to drag him toward the bar. “He smolders. It’s his thing.”

“I don’t like it,” Louis grumbled, glancing over his shoulder to find Zayn still watching their retreat.

Harry squeezed his wrist and winked. “Liar.”

“Well, I don’t like it _much._ ”

Harry’s eyes narrowed as he handed Louis a beer. “Nevermind. I think I prefer you not liking it.”

 The possessiveness of the statement lit the base of Louis’ spine, an unexpected jolt of electricity, and he teetered on the precipice with it; _to flirt or not to flirt._

“Are you saying he’s off limits?” He took a swig of the beer, watching Harry follow the movement of his throat as he swallowed. _To flirt._

There was no mistaking the answering glint in Harry’s eyes.

“I’m saying you are.”


	6. Chapter 6

_"So...tell me again how you're going to maintain a professional relationship with the pretty but bitchy one—locked in a closet, for three weeks—in space?"_

_"I think the more important question," Harry said, "Is how I keep from venting him out an airlock."_

  _…_

So, Louis was probably too old, not to mention too mature, to drag someone into a back alley, shove them up against a smoky brick wall, and wedge a knee between their legs in an attempt to assuage the raw hunger currently consuming him.  

But  _God_  he wanted to.

He also wanted to smash his fist into  _Zayn's_  snout.  _Zayn_  with his dark eyes and easy familiarity and too intimate touches, fingers dipping into the opening of Harry's silk shirt, dancing across the butterfly on his torso, catching a droplet of sweat before it snaked over his collarbone. And Louis was forced to watch this absolute fucking disaster while they danced, grinding back to front, the floor so crowded they were engulfed on all sides. Harry's skin shone in the flashing strobes, sticky and damp, his open expression heartstoppingly beautiful.

Each secret smile, wink, or whisper in Zayn's ear twisted in Louis' gut, dark and bitter.

And yes, okay, everyone was dancing, even Niall and Liam—but it was  _Zayn's_  hands permanently attached to Harry's lithe hips, and Louis hated him.

 _Hated_  him.

After four songs he hid in the men's room. It was either that or make a damned fool of himself over the irritatingly sexy pop star who had somehow weaseled under his skin.

Whose brilliant idea was it to abandon their usual bar and find a dance club, anyway?

Oh right.

_Zayn._

He washed his hands, splashed his face, and was just drying off with a length of cheap paper toweling when Liam crashed through the paneled door, eyes bright and cheeks flushed.

"Lou!" he grinned, more than slightly out of breath. "Great night isn't it? Zayn is—"

"A complete and total prick? Yes. Yes he is." Louis cracked his knuckles on the side of the sink in his angry haste to toss the wad of paper in the trashcan.

Liam blinked. "I was going to say awesome."

" _Zayn_!?" Louis scoffed. "Please. That over-gelled, oversexed, over—" His lips clamped shut when Harry and  _Zayn_  tumbled into the bathroom behind Liam.

"Oh. Hey." Harry's smile was too wide, too happy, too  _everything it had never been with Louis._

Zayn had one finger crooked through a belt loop on Harry's jeans.

It was too much.

Louis ignored them and left the bathroom.

He hit the bar first. Holding up two fingers to the girl carrying a bottle of tequila, downing both shots before he could reconsider. He flirted with the handsome blonde to his left and the pretty dark-haired boy to his right, and let them both buy him drinks, the dark one sidling up with a feline grin and a wad of cash. And when that got old, he let someone entirely different—with big, meaty hands, and a bicep/forearm combo that looked it could crush a walnut in the crook of his elbow—pull him onto the dance floor where he was summarily tossed from body to body and drink to drink until he could no longer remember the exact shade of Harry's eyes.

Which was when Harry appeared at the bar, covering Louis' woefully empty shotglass with one large palm. "He's had enough," he said to the bartender.

"I'll decide when I've had enough," Louis sputtered but the girl shrugged and left, sashaying down the bar in search of more lucrative customers. He stumbled off the stool, dodging when Harry moved as though to catch him.

"Louis."

"Fuck off," Louis spat, turning on his heel too quick for his lagging reflexes and nearly face planting on the glossy floor.

A floral-clad arm snapped around his waist like a vise, lifting him off his feet and dragging him through a side entrance and into the chilly air of a dark alley.

The irony wasn't lost on Louis, and he would have laughed, but a sudden wave of nausea had him doubling over and losing all of his dinner and most of his lunch at Harry's feet.

 _Fan-fucking-tastic,_  he thought as the world faded to black.

...

"Shit!" Louis gasped, ice cold water coating his back, his head, running down his face and into his mouth. "What the fuck!" He struggled against the hands holding him under the stream of water.

"Hold still. You stink."

Louis quieted, reaching with shaky fingers to swipe the hair from his eyes. Harry's sheer shirt was ruined, the wet fabric clinging to his chest, the silk losing its muted red dye down the drain. Louis tried to straighten, to back away, but his and Liam's shower wasn't exactly roomy, and  _oh,_  wasn't this the most humiliating thing.

As he sobered up, he  _sobered up,_  and exactly how much of a complete and total asshole he had been all evening flooded his conscience.

"Harry—"

Harry gave him a little shake. "Lou, I'm so fucking pissed at you right now, my advice is that you shut up and let me get the both of us clean, or I'm going to clock you in that pretty mouth. I swear to God I will."

 _Moss,_  Louis thought shakily. Harry's eyes were the shade of the moss that grew on the north side of the barn on the farm where he grew up. "Okay," he said quietly.

Harry's jaw tightened. "Okay." He reached behind Louis for the shampoo, frowning when he flinched. "Calm down," he muttered. "I've never actually hit anyone."

"No?" Louis asked, shivering. The water was really cold, and now that his shirt and jeans—and shoes,  _fuck!—_ were soaked, he was basically an ice cube on legs.

Harry's frown deepened and he adjusted the water temperature after he replaced the shampoo bottle. The sudden warmth of the water was a shock and it propelled Louis closer to the inferno that was _Harry_ , and he should probably be humbled by it (by everything), but then both of those big, big hands were in his hair, and, well, Louis was only human. An unfettered moan escaped his lips before he could catch it.

Harry's fingers tightened imperceptibly before they raked across his scalp again and again, maybe chasing the sound, maybe just lathering the tangled strands. "I'm still pissed,” he added, almost to himself.

Louis didn't dare nod, half afraid he would suffer a repeat performance of the puking and/or the passing out, and he really wanted to be awake for this. His reality was muted, soft and fuzzy around the edges, and although intellectually he knew he was standing in a shower while Harry washed his hair, his brain wasn't processing the event fully. It would, he knew that it would, and he would suffer untold miseries when it did. But right now he just wanted to rest his forehead on the hollow of Harry's throat and let him massage the lingering tension from his neck.

So he did.

When the taps were turned off and the bathroom filled with silence, he inhaled deep through his nose. He couldn't raise his head, couldn't look Harry in the eye. Not yet. Just let him have this cotton candy reality a moment more.

A hand squeezed his hip.

"I’ll get you a towel."

And then Harry was gone, padding barefoot to the linen closet and returning to drop two fluffy white towels on the closed toilet, before mumbling about peppermint tea and disappearing in a cloud of steam and dark, wet curls and, somehow, somewhere, holding the tattered remnants of Louis' heart.

...

Louis managed to get out of his soaked clothes without breaking any bones or bathroom fixtures, and even remembered to toss everything in the bottom of the tub, lest they make a further watery mess of the tile (and enrage Liam the neatnik). He stopped at the dryer long enough to snag a pair of boxer briefs, unsure if Harry was still in the apartment, not feeling particularly primed to face him clad only in a towel. If he wanted to face him at all.

His heart pinched, a sharp twinge that left him surprised and breathless, when he considered that Harry had probably left, gone back to  _Zayn,_  back to his own apartment, without saying goodbye. Why would he? Louis was pathetic. Rude to Harry, rude to his friend, embarrassed the whole lot of them before upchucking all over Harry's fancy ass boots.

Pitiful funk in full swing, Louis plodded down the soft carpeted hall, dreading the painful aftereffects the morning would surely bring and sending up a little prayer that his looming hangover came with a side of amnesia. He drew up short at his bedroom door; there was a Harry-shaped lump in his bed, and a stupid amount of wet hair getting his favorite pillow damp.

He could sleep on the couch. 

He  _should_  sleep on the couch. 

Instead, he crawled under the covers, hating himself for the weakness, unable to resist a Harry who was warm and mostly naked and smelled like Louis' shampoo.

Louis didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified when his appearance wasn't met with resistance (which—it was Louis' bed, so, no), and Harry pulled him close with an angry little sigh, enveloping him, skin as soft and sweet as Louis had dreamed it would be. There was no time to memorize it though, no time to catalogue the ink dripping across his body, or the curls twining around his neck, because exhaustion was a brutal competitor and it was winning. The last thing Louis remembered was soft lips grazing his ear and a whispered, "You're such an idiot," and then nothing.

Nothing at all. 


	7. Chapter 7

_"Define 'slept together'."_

_"I hate you," Harry sighed._

...

Louis blinked against the too bright light of the morning sun streaming through the parted bedroom curtains and moaned pitifully into his pillow.

 _Why_  did he insist on doing really stupid (and painful) things?

He thought about getting up, but decided it was too risky, he was clearly dying, the pounding in his head vicious and precise, an icepick stab from ear to ear.

He was also alone.

And he didn't have amnesia.

Literally, could he not catch a single fucking break? Ever?  _Jesus_.

A shower made him feel approximately two percent better, but even that tiny achievement was voided when he popped into a coffee shop for the strongest, blackest cup of morning java he could buy, and caught a glimpse of the latest edition of Us Magazine. The cover featured a startled Harry, caught in flagrante delicto with a gorgeous Brazilian model, his fingers entangled in the tiny spaghetti strap of her dress as it fell from her shoulder. Her sultry smile mocked the camera:  _Gaze upon everything you will never have._

As he paid, Louis wondered idly if the shooting range was open this early.

He'd really like to shoot something right now.

Perversely, he bought the fucking magazine, intending to torture himself with the promise of additional photos, later, over saltine crackers and 7-Up. He dropped a pair of mirrored aviators in place, shielding his brain from the sun's piercing rays and the public from the dark circles under his eyes and trudged back onto the street.

...

Eight saltines later, Louis pushed open the gym door to find that Harry was already there, another sun, another piercing brightness, and honestly Louis had had enough. This was fucking ridiculous,  _he_  was fucking ridiculous, and even though there was a trashcan in the cafeteria with a brand new issue of Us Magazine taking residence, he needed this thing to come to a head.

More specifically, he needed it to be over.

He would  _literally_  be on the moon in just under three weeks, and an extremely tight mission schedule didn't allow much wiggle room for personal projects (like, say, spending two and a half of those weeks exploring all the ways he'd like to fuck the pop star currently sweating so beautifully all over Louis' nice, clean gym). So, he did what he did best: he picked a fight.

"Honestly, Styles, if you can't handle a little rope climbing without gasping like it's your last goddamn breath, how the hell are you going to survive a month in microgravity?"

Harry's head whipped around, eyes wide. His cheeks were already tinted rosy from exertion, but bright pink splotches quickly blossomed on his neck and chest too, an emotionally triggered response to Louis' cutting remarks.

Louis bent over his gym bag to escape the startled hurt in Harry's eyes. It stung anyway, the sharp intake of breath, the almost physical flinch away from him when he straightened. "What?" he bit out, ever the asshole, and why not? Why not just embrace who he was? Harry did. Harry had never, not once, pretended to be anything other than exactly what he appeared to be: a very pretty superstar with enough time and money on his hands to do whatever the fuck he wanted, regardless of whose life it affected. "Jesus," he muttered, squeezing the bridge of his nose and wishing he had taken a bottle of aspirin with his coffee. "Quit looking at me like that and get back to work. I'm certainly not going to be the one at fault when everyone realizes what a waste of resources it was to bring you aboard. It's not as if you can actually do something of use." 

And  _God_  Louis wanted to cut out his own tongue. It was like he couldn't stop, like days, months,  _years_  of pent up emotional baggage was boiling over all at once, and almost none of it had a single goddamn thing to do with Harry, but he was convenient and maybe Louis was a bully.

Harry found his voice, having gone completely still during Louis' second wind. "Something of use."

"Yeah." Louis ground his teeth together, refusing to back down. "Looking pretty isn't actually that valuable in space, so what exactly  _do_ you plan to do?"

"Well I'm not going up there to serenade your prissy ass!"

"No?  _NO?_  Then why the hell  _are_  you going?"

"Why do you care?"

Louis snapped, rounding on Harry with wild eyes and heaving chest. "Because I had to work my ass off to get here! And you waltzed in with an endless bank account and I—" but he cut himself off, swallowing the rest, all of the rest, nearly revealing things he no longer let himself think about. Things that didn't matter anymore anyway.

"Fair enough," Harry said quietly, watching him with those damned expressive eyes of his, concern shining for the first time, eclipsing the surprise and the anger, as though he understood something had shifted at the very base of who they were, and it had nothing to do with Louis' inability to process too much tequila or shared beds.

"No but that's just it, isn't it?" Louis shook his head. "It's not 'fair', it's not even remotely in the realm of fucking fair. You have absolutely no idea what it takes to be an astronaut, but if you want to be the best, this is where you have to be and you better fucking believe the competition is fierce." He laughed hoarsely, breathless with the sense that time was running out . "But what would you know about any of that? You're just some guy in a band with enough money to buy his way through life."

"Well," Harry approached cautiously, his words as slow and soothing as a summer breeze. "It  _is_  one of the top selling bands of all time."

Louis' mouth worked open and closed, until he caught the twinkle in Harry's eye and just like that the tension evaporated and the threads tying his anger together unraveled, disappearing in the color of moss and the smell of Indian summer nights.  

Us Magazine, Zayn, the tequila guy—they could all go to fucking hell. 

"Do you want to get out of here for a while?"

Harry never even blinked. "Yes."

Louis' chest was vise-tight, things best left unsaid, unremembered, unrelated to Harry at all, still simmering just beneath the surface, but if he didn't get in his car and drive and drive and drive—he was going to lose whatever tenuous grip he had on his sanity. He wanted Harry there beside him, and he was weak enough—or man enough—to finally admit it.

It might be stupid. He didn't care.

"Okay." He turned and left the gym, not checking to see if Harry was following, not looking anywhere but forward, sliding into his Jeep, the key in his hand shaking too hard to find the ignition. He laughed, the sound wild, cracking mid-syllable, stilling when Harry's palm squeezed his wrist.

"Maybe I should drive."

Louis met his eyes, breath lodged somewhere between his heart and his lungs.

He remembered, with startling clarity, the feel of Harry's lips in his hair, the sheen of his bare shoulders in the moonlight.

"Lou," Harry whispered, eyes falling to his mouth.

"I’m fine.” Louis jammed the key in the ignition and turned it, the engine roaring to life, effectively saving Louis from himself.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

"I feel like it's important I tell you that the label has a million dollar insurance policy on my legs."

Louis scoffed in disbelief. "Your legs." They had been driving for almost an hour, and he would need to stop for gas soon. Harry hadn't asked a single question about where they were going, had been a quiet passenger, really, other than punching Louis in the arm once when they saw a VW Bug, and fiddling with the radio every few songs.

"I mean, my voice has a separate policy. But." Harry shrugged. "I have good legs."

 _Yes, you do_ , Louis thought fondly. Fuck his life. He glanced down at the fuel gauge. "We'll need to stop for gas soon. Any preference for size?"

"Huh?" Harry frowned.

"You know," Louis waved his hand in the general direction of the highway. "Do I need to choose some place off the rails or can I swing into that big Quik-Trip up ahead."

"You mean I have to go out in public? Without my bodyguard?!" Harry gasped.

Louis rolled his eyes. "You're the one bringing up your million dollar legs, not me."

"Yeah, well, don't be getting any ideas."

"What kind of ideas?" Louis pursed his lips, as though he were seriously considering his options.

"Kidnapping, holding my famous legs for ransom," Harry shrugged, studying the fingernails on one hand. "That sort of thing."

"Like anyone would pay." Louis swung into the gas station, and pulled into an empty stall. He slammed the Jeep into park and hopped out, Harry hot on his heels.

"I just _told_ you they would!"

"Eh. I have my doubts." Louis swiped his credit card and chose the premium grade; only the best for his baby.

"That's because all your taste is in your mouth." Harry crossed his arms in a huff.

"Excuse me?"

"You wouldn't know a pair of good legs if they walked up and hit you between the eyes," Harry complained, firmly entering pouting territory now.

"I think I'd know," Louis said dryly. "I've had my head between a thigh or two in my time." Harry blushed so hard, even his lips turned bright pink and Louis had to struggle to keep a straight face. He pointed at a farmer moseying up to the tractor in the next stall. "Now that guy has great legs."

Harry snorted, clapping a hand over his mouth to cover the sound.

"What?" Louis shrugged. "I have a thing for overalls."

"Noted." Harry's eyes were twinkling and bright.

Louis thought maybe the world had tilted too far to one side before, but it was righting itself now. He was fizzy and lightheaded, the sun slanting across them as they walked into the store to pay, kissing them with its warmth.

"What about that guy?" Harry nudged him, nodding toward the refrigerated drink case, where an extremely tall, extremely thin man was choosing from the myriad selection of cheap beer, black leather chaps and vest flapping around his bony frame.

"Mmm," Louis hummed lasciviously. "Sons of Anarchy. I like."

Harry bit the inside of his cheek to contain his mirth, diverting his gaze just before the man turned toward them. "And him?"

It took everything Louis had not to laugh outright. The sweet little man mumbling at the candy display was eighty if he was a day, bald, and wearing a sweater vest and bow tie. "Perfection," he nodded. "Definitely worth more than one mil."

"Agreed," Harry smiled, hip checking him gently.

Louis shrugged with an exaggerated sigh. "Face it, Harold. You're way overpriced."

"I'm not a hooker, Lou." When Louis opened his mouth to retort, Harry narrowed his eyes pointedly. "Think carefully before you speak."

Louis grinned. "Afraid of the truth?"

"I'm afraid of getting arrested for beating the shit out of you."

"Ooh, just think of the headlines." Louis spread his hands out above their heads. "Mildly famous pop star brutally attacks America's most eligible astronaut."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Please. I'm way more famous than you."

Louis was just about to respond when a hand tugged at his elbow.

"Mr. Tomlinson?"

When he turned, he found two young girls, smiling and clutching each other, starry-eyed.

"Yes?"

"Oh my god!" The smaller one squealed. "I can't believe it's you! Can we have a picture?"

Louis tossed a smirk in Harry's direction. "Of course! Of course." He held his hand out for her phone. "Here, my friend can even take it."

Harry accepted the phone with a smile, playing his role to the hilt, taking several photos of Louis with the girls and then standing aside while they chatted.

"What's your favorite subject?" Louis asked, scrawling his autograph on the cover of one of the girls' notebook.

"Physics," the teenager answered with a self-conscious laugh. "I want to be an astronaut, too."

Louis smiled and touched her shoulder. "Then you're on the right track." He returned the pen and notebook. "Have you heard of our summer program for students? You should apply."

When the girls left a few minutes later, he had to scan the small store to find Harry. He found him studying the frozen burritos, holding a little wire basket filled nearly to the brim with junk food.

Harry grinned and shook the basket. "I thought we needed snacks."

Louis nodded. "I could eat." When Harry continued to smile, biting at his bottom lip and generally looking about as fond as Louis had ever seen him, he shifted uncomfortably. "What?"

"That might have been the sweetest thing I've ever seen."

"Oh shut up," Louis mumbled, feeling his own cheeks heat.

"No," Harry said decisively. "I won't."

"Like you haven't done the same, a thousand times."

Harry shrugged, tossing two frozen burritos in the basket. "It's not the same."

"How do you figure?" Louis asked, genuinely perplexed. Sure, he occasionally got recognized, particularly now with his and Liam's and Niall's faces plastered all over the local news because of the upcoming mission. But—Harry was literally on the cover of no fewer than three magazines bordering the register right this moment.

"I'm—" Harry seemed to struggle to find the right words. "You made a difference for those girls today. _You_ , encouraging them, believing in their dreams and—" he stopped again, biting his lip. "I just sing."

Louis studied him, his beautiful face, his stupid man bun, the torn and ratty neckline of his t-shirt—which Louis had _told him a thousand times_ to stop wearing, it was distracting as fuck, the way the neckline dipped to reveal his collarbone. He could barely string enough insults together to truly offend him when he wore it, the jerk. "You do more than that."

"You don't know that."

And he had him there, because Louis didn't know that. Harry was always telling him that Louis didn't know anything about him, and he was right. He didn't know all the tabloid stories, other than the one he'd read just that morning, and he didn't know his childhood or his rise to fame or even what he had for breakfast. But he knew _him._ "I know you."

Harry's shoulders visibly relaxed, as he hugged the basket of snacks tight to his chest. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Louis turned back toward the cashier. "Just like I know your legs sure as fuck aren't worth a million dollars."

There was a beat of silence. "Whatever!" Harry shoved him aside to beat him to the counter, where he slammed the basket down and popped his hip in what Louis gathered was supposed to be a showcase of his _assets._

Louis raised one brow at the cashier. "Do you take legs?"

"Huh?" She asked, wide eyes bouncing between the two.

"See?" Louis sighed dejectedly. "Worthless." He passed his credit card to the confused girl.

"Shut up," Harry grinned, grabbing the two burritos and spinning away, his lanky frame skipping to the microwave station. "Me and my million dollar legs are going over there to cook your lunch. Meet you out front."

Louis accepted his receipt from the girl with a shrug. "Men."

"Men," the girl solemnly agreed.

...

"So," Harry mumbled around a mouthful of beans and cheese. "You going to tell me where we're going or?"

Louis took his eyes off the road long enough to peer into his paper-wrapped tortilla. "This is kind of terrible. You can cross chef off your future career aspirations, Harold."

"Don't change the subject, wanker." Harry wadded up his burrito wrapper and tossed it at Louis' head.

"Oi!" Louis complained. "Don't distract the driver!"

Harry propped one foot up on the dash, arching his back and posing prettily on the seat beside him. "You mean like this?"

Louis return volleyed the ball of paper, beaning him in the temple. "Like what?"

Harry's feet hit the floorboard with a _thump_. "I sincerely hate you."

"Ditto." Louis made a _gimme_ motion with his fingers. "Drink."

"Christ, you're bossy," Harry muttered, bending over to dig through the sack. "Do this, don't do that. Wash my hair. Put me to bed. Don't hump your best friend on the dance floor." He passed him a canned soft drink.

Louis' mouth dropped open in a little _oh._

Harry held the soft drink mid air for a beat before shrugging and tucking it between Louis' legs.

Louis swallowed, flush climbing the back of his neck. "We are never speaking of last night again."

"Oh, yes we fucking are," Harry said cheerfully, popping the top on a can of Pringles. "Just not right this second. I'm still too pissed off at you." He offered Louis a chip, waving it in front of his lips until they parted with a growl.

Louis chewed aggressively, finishing the chip before answering. "I didn't ask you to wash my hair."

Harry side eyed him. "And I wasn't humping Zayn because I want to fuck him."

The Jeep swerved and Louis coughed. "Jesus, did you see that cat? Came out of nowhere." When Harry continued to stare, he sighed. "I don't want to talk about it."

"It?"

"Who you want to, uh, fuck." If the ground opened up and swallowed Louis whole, he wouldn't complain. At all. _Jesus._

Harry passed him another chip. "Fine."

"Fine."

"Good."

"Good."

"I want to fuck you."

"Jesus Christ!" Louis gripped the wheel with both hands, knuckles white.

"No," Harry shook his head slowly as he chewed. "Just you."

"Oh my God." Louis flipped the signal on the Jeep, taking the turn about ten miles an hour too fast.

Harry sat up with a grin. "Ooh, right now?"

"No!" Louis scrubbed a hand over his face, biting back a smile. "Fuck, you're impossible. No." He swallowed nervously, casting a furtive glance at his passenger when they hit the first bump in the old dirt road. "This is where I grew up," he said, nodding at the open fields, mowed and raked and ready to make bales of hay. "I'm taking you home."

...


	9. Chapter 9

_“I need details.”_

_“Well you’re not getting them.”_

_“Harry.”_

_“No!”_

_“Prude.”_

_“Perv.”_

_“Pansy.”_

_“I’m taking you out of my will.”_

_..._

 

There was a farmhouse in the distance, white clapboard siding, green roof and shingles, a chipped and faded fence surrounding the property.

Harry rolled down his window and laughed, twisting in his seat, trying to take everything in as the road narrowed and the pastures widened. “Is it stupid that I’m nervous?”

Louis shrugged, fighting his own butterflies as the Jeep filled with the familiar scent of fescue. “Just, you know,” he coughed self-consciously. “Don’t expect too much.”

 “Are those horses? You have horses?” Harry’s face was alight with child-like delight and Louis kind of wanted to pull over, tug him close and breathe him in for a minute, absorb some of his guileless wonder. Maybe it would quell the nerves coiling in his stomach.

He did slow, and it wasn’t only because the road was rougher, in need of a grading after a late summer storm. It was also to give him—and Harry—time to prepare, because God knew Louis hadn’t thought before he started driving, and he sure as hell hadn’t thought about what bringing _Harry_ home was going to mean.

He glanced at him in the passenger seat, Harry’s fingers tapping impatiently on his knee, the rhythm belying the stillness of the rest of his body. Louis smiled when he realized he was counting, counting the horses dotting the field, some of them Louis’, some of them his granddad’s. All of them spoiled rotten and missed, by Louis, very, very much.

“There are cows too.” He pursed his lips. “And goats. And, uh,” he cleared his throat. “Chickens. Ducks.”

“Ducks?” Harry reached over to push on Louis’ knee, trying to force his foot down on the peddle. “Jesus, Lou, go!”

Louis laughed and grabbed Harry’s hand without thinking.

Harry froze, startled eyes meeting his over the console.

Louis released him in a flash, fingers tingling, hot. “Sorry.”

Harry didn’t answer, but Louis could feel his hesitation, so attuned to him— _when had that happened—_ that he was expecting it, almost didn’t flinch, when Harry laid his palm on his thigh and squeezed.

His head swam with innocuous details—sights, sounds, feelings, fears—a relentless, brutal barrage of every single reason this was a terrible idea. But his leg burned under the warmth of Harry’s hand in way it never had before, the fingers pressing an outline of frustration and desire (and probably regret) into Louis’ skin.

Louis exhaled slowly, and _chose_. (Maybe it had always been a choice—he just hadn’t been paying attention).

He covered Harry’s hand with his own.

It was electric, this first voluntary touch of skin on skin, an open invitation to the insanity that was now inevitable, and rather than making Louis feel even one tiny bit better that there was some kind of forward progression, that he wasn’t, in fact, going to die before he got to have this—the truth was, there wasn’t a single cell in his body that wasn’t still scared shitless.

“I can’t breathe,” Harry mumbled, and when Louis glanced over, his eyes were squeezed shut, a curl having worked its way loose from his bun and stuck to his cheek.

It struck Louis how ridiculous they were and he giggled. Because it was inordinately _funny_ —the stomach-churning kind of hilarity that started with a snort and ended in tears, and the giggle spread, Harry’s indignant reaction inciting a further ugly fit of laughter, until Louis could hardly see the road.

Harry tried to jerk his hand back, but Louis caught his fingers, holding them through the final vestiges of what, intellectually, he recognized as hysteria.

“I don’t know what’s so funny.” Harry had retreated as far as the passenger door would allow.

As the humor drained away, leaving him breathless and anxious with anticipation, Louis wondered what Harry would do if he laced their fingers together, held his hand in the casual, easy way he’d nearly done, unthinkingly, a hundred times over the past few weeks. If he reached over to cup his chin and then kissed his angry pout.

The butterflies were frantic now, trying to beat their way out of Louis’ chest, but he was still the biggest coward on the planet, apparently, because instead of doing any of those things, he released Harry’s hand. His throat was clogged with emotion, and he honestly didn’t know how much of it was laughter and how much was abject fear.

“Me,” he said finally, a belated answer to Harry’s complaint. “I’m just.” He shrugged. “I’m being ridiculous. Ignore me.”

“Whatever.” Harry said stiffly, face turned away, arms hugging his chest, a damned effective wall if Louis ever saw one. Which was, of course, for the best. As it should be. Louis had ended this, _it,_ whatever it was, and now he could steer them back on course. Regain his footing. Find his balance.

He reached over to tuck that errant curl behind Harry’s ear, a fatal mistake as it turned out, because he was unable to resist pressing his thumb into the bolt of his jaw, the hinge sharp and angular and _God,_ he wanted to put his mouth there.

He stopped the car and and slammed it into park, and Harry started, surprise widening his beautiful eyes.

Balance, Louis decided, was overrated.

He slid a hand behind Harry’s neck and tugged before he could reconsider, before he could come to his senses, before the paralyzing fear racing through his veins could convince him to _run run run_.

There was a flash of green, the strawberry scent of his own shampoo, and then _Harry_.

A first kiss should be sweet, gentle and searching, but when Harry’s mouth met his, Louis was engulfed. It was open mouths and insistent tongue and Louis was going to die. He could taste him, the salt of the potato chips and the citrus of his soda, and something else, something unique and strange and wonderful. The realization that that undefinable thing was _Harry_ whipped down his spine in a current of desire so strong he whimpered; the answering groan and gentling of the kiss, so tender, and he was nearly undone.

Louis didn’t notice Harry taking off his seatbelt and climbing across the console, but suddenly there he was, in his lap, pushing Louis into the corner between the seat and the door, cupping his face between big, strong hands. Harry ended one kiss and started another, then another, covering Louis’ face from eyebrow to chin, peppering each press of his mouth with an admonition.

“You’re such a bastard.” _Kiss._ “God, I hate you.” _Kiss._ “Fucking jackass.” _Kiss._ “ _Lou._ ”

Louis couldn’t feel his limbs anymore, but he managed to grab Harry’s hips and squeeze. “Baby, wait,” he mumbled around an aneurysm and a mouthful of stubble.

Harry shuddered and silenced him, chasing the endearment with his tongue.  

And so it went, for a lengthy pause in which Louis let himself feel for a change. Not think, not argue, not fight—just _feel._

Harry’s skin was wonderfully smooth, warm velvet under his t-shirt, a fact Louis discovered because his hands had a mind of their own and had slipped under the hem to sneak a caress, to count the knobs along the base of his spine, to playfully pinch a stubborn bit of fluff, for which he apologized with a smile mid-kiss, and a sigh that sounded way too much like contentment. Harry retaliated by biting his lower lip, sharp enough to hurt, and then laving it with his tongue before melting into him, an unapologetic cuddle as he nosed against Louis’ ear.

“Just so you know, we’re never leaving this spot.”

Louis laughed, surprising himself with the carefree sound, and wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist. It felt right, scarily so, but he didn’t want to investigate it too closely, didn’t really care. He was home, or nearly, and Harry was right where he wanted him, all legs and arms and hair and and it was fucking amazing.

He didn’t want to think. So he didn’t.

“Well, we’re blocking the road, so eventually we have to,” he said softly, flushing as he pressed a soft kiss to Harry’s neck, the butterflies now a cacophony of wild fluttering, filling his chest and making him dizzy. Harry sighed and burrowed closer, still hiding, long enough that Louis felt the first niggling of fear. “You okay?” _Is this okay?_ Of course it wasn’t, for about a million reasons, but Louis wanted to pretend a little while longer, and he sort of desperately hoped Harry did too.

Harry sat up, banging his elbow on the door and wincing, his mouth so cherry sweet Louis nearly groaned again. “Other than the constant whiplash effect of being anywhere near you, yeah.” His gaze fell away, uncharacteristically shy, cheeks flushed pink. He picked at an invisible speck of lint on Louis’ chest. “You?”

Louis knew he should probably take his hands out from under Harry’s shirt before answering, but the warmth of skin on skin was giving him strength, feeding his bravado, tempering his fear. Maybe that was the answer. Maybe as long as he was kissing Harry, it wouldn’t feel like the world was going to end in unmitigated disaster. “Other than your bony ass digging into my leg—” He grimaced when Harry wiggled purposefully, gouging his thigh. “I’m doing a fuckton better.” He smiled gently, feeling ridiculously soft. “And I’m sorry about the whiplash.” He almost meant it.

Harry smiled too, teeth and dimples and another little wiggle, and it was sunshine and fairytales and Louis was so, so completely fucked.

“Next time, you’re on top,” Harry winked, tongue tucked firmly in cheek, meeting Louis’ eyes and hesitating, giving him one last chance to flee—before leaning down and kissing him.

Other than the way his heart was shooting moonbeams out his pores, his skin too tight for his body— _Jesus Christ—_ Louis had no desire to change anything about this at all, ever. _Next time!_ He tightened his grip on Harry’s waist, tucking him as close as their cramped quarters would allow and fell into it, opening his mouth and giving as good as he got, for which he was rewarded with another bruising hip wiggle and then kissed within an inch of his life.

It was a pretty decent trade off.

In fact, he was mindlessly considering relocating to the back of the Jeep—he had spent a night or two there before—trying to remember if he still had a blanket, and oh, _fuck_ , did he even have a condom—when there was a sharp rap on the driver’s window.

They sprang apart, or at least as far apart as their current seating choice would allow, and for a split second Louis wondered how many times he was going to ask the universe to swallow him up only to have the universe flip him the bird.

He cringed before rolling down the window and meeting the gaze of the man who raised him.

“Hi, Pop.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

_“Oh, by the way. I’m a vegetarian now.”_

_“A vegetarian. Because you fed a few chickens.”_

_“I made a promise. You don’t have to understand it, but I expect you to respect it.”_

_“To **chickens** , Haz. You made a promise to chickens.”_

_“They were so cute. Did I tell you about Merle? She was the one with the little spots on her tail?”_

_“Oh my God.”_

... 

 

“So that could have gone better.” Louis eased the Jeep into his old spot under the oak tree at the side of the house, behind his granddad’s pickup truck.

“You think?” Harry snorted. “Your _grandfather_ caught us two humps short of shagging in his driveway.”

 Louis wrinkled his nose. “He’s seen worse.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open, before slamming shut as he scrambled to follow Louis from the car. “Later, you’re explaining _worse,_ ” he grumbled as they approached the only parent Louis had ever known.

Louis’ mother had been just eighteen when he was born, young and scared and reckless, and though he liked to think his parents had made a decent attempt at the whole family thing, they had both disappeared by the time he turned three. He would never see his father again, but his mother would pop up for long stretches at a time, usually between relationships, and, after a few years, towing Louis’ siblings in her wake. There were four of them, beautiful young girls that he didn’t get to see nearly enough. He had never managed to forge a close relationship with his mother, but they were friendly now, at least, and as soon as he had been old enough to do so, he had made it a priority to be a solid, positive presence for his sisters. Most of that was due to the man up ahead, climbing out of his dusty old farm truck in work jeans and a faded denim shirt, hair and mustache still healthy and full, a touch whiter than the last time Louis had seen him. He had taught Louis about unconditional love, about what it meant to be a family, even an unconventional one, and Louis’ heart squeezed hard when his granddad didn’t hesitate a millisecond before he opened his arms and dragged him in for a hug.

 “And here I thought you had outgrown that shit,” the older man teased gruffly, voice warm with laughter, and he whacked Louis on the back three good times before he released him and turned to the boy-man fidgeting beside them. “All right then, let me look at you.”

Harry flushed even pinker, eyes wide and sincere, and Louis could see he was trying desperately to appear acceptable, teetering on the edge of a volcano and hoping like hell he didn’t fall in.

Louis might love him. It was a terrifying thought.

“Pop, this is Harry Styles. Harry, my granddad, Len.”

Len shook Harry’s hand, peering closely at the coiled knot of hair on top of his head. “NASA gonna let you take that thing into space, son?”

Harry twisted his mouth, a cheeky spark lighting his eyes. “I paid extra.”

Len nodded with a grin. “Good for you.” He gestured toward the barn. “Well let’s get on with it then. There’s chores before supper. You might’ve noticed my grandson is a bit of a princess. He’ll avoid honest work ‘til the damn place falls down around our ears if we let ‘em. It’s my own fault. Shoulda spanked him when he was little.”

“Hey!” Louis’ frown was short-lived, Harry’s rapt expression and eagerness to match his granddad’s long stride the kind of heartwarming spectacle that had Louis praying for his sanity.

He caught up to them at the side of the first corral, Len pointing out the different pens and feeding stations.

“Lot of history in this old place. Louis lost the big V right over there, behind the barn.”

“ _Pop._ ”

“Oh, I’m sorry, was that a secret?” Len’s eyes twinkled and he grabbed Harry’s elbow, steering him toward the chicken coop. “Anyway. Popped his cherry with a traveling bullrider one summer. Floated around here like a lovesick pup for a solid six days, ‘til the flashy asshole took off in the dead of night, chasin’ the rodeo. Good riddance, I said. Never did trust a cowpoke with such clean boots.” He bent over to snatch an old metal coffee can from the hay-strewn dirt, three-quarters filled with feed, and shoved it into Harry’s hands, slapping him on the ass when he hesitated. “Chickens’re waitin’ boy. Don’t waste the daylight.”

Louis chuckled, shaking his head.

It was good to be home.

…

“You know, you don’t have to make each chicken’s individual acquaintance,” Louis said wryly, forearms resting on the topmost rail. “They’ll eat just the same without a personal invitation.”

“Hush,” Harry mumbled, shrewdly surveying his little pack of admirers, glancing up only when he was content each had had an equal serving. “You could have helped, princess.”

Louis grimaced. “Don’t you start.”

“Whatever,” Harry grinned, setting the coffee can on top of a corner post and carefully letting himself out of the pen. “I know all your secrets now.”

Louis bit his lip when Harry didn’t stop, momentum carrying him forward until he was crowded right up in Louis’ bubble, pecking a quick kiss to his mouth, as easy as breathing. _Fuck._ He should probably feel a little foolish at the way his body swooned in his direction as Harry walked away. “Not all of my secrets,” he wheezed belatedly.

Harry spun on his heel, backing across the dusty ground, a smudge on his cheek, looking like every last one of Louis’ wet dreams come to life. “I’ve got time,” he winked.

There were ducks to feed and water, and a litter of baby pigs that Harry took about a hundred photos of before Louis, desperate with how easily Harry slotted into his life here, took his phone away in frustration and shoved him into a rotting corner of the tool shed. But Harry fit there too, understanding Louis’ inner turmoil better, perhaps, than Louis did himself, and refusing to rise to the bait. He swallowed Louis’ bitching easily and they necked there in the shadows of the overhang like a couple of teenagers, until a neigh and a whinny from the barn drew Harry’s attention and he was off again, dragging a breathless but calmer Louis behind him.

It was an hour before Louis managed to pry him away from the horse barn, a newborn foal proving more alluring than dirty talk and neck kisses combined. Although the neck kisses had led to some literal rolling in the hay in an empty—but clean, Louis checked—stall, and there might a few pieces of stray fescue Louis would need to extricate tout suite, lest he suffer chafing in places he couldn’t mention in polite company.

He glanced over at Harry as they made their way up to the farmhouse, the fading sun of dusk throwing an autumnal glow over the farm, glittering across Harry’s cheek and painting his skin an unearthly gold. Louis, dazed, stumbled over his own feet.

Harry caught him by the elbow, barely preventing a cow patty disaster. “Watch your step.” His smile was slow and deliberate, as though he knew exactly where Louis’ eyes had been.  

“Shut up,” Louis grumbled, slapping Harry’s hands away when he plucked a piece of hay from Louis’ hair. It wasn’t like they had a snowball’s chance in hell of fooling his granddad about what took so long to “check the horses”, anyway. Although it would be really fucking great if Harry could keep his fucking hands to himself at the fucking dinner table, and also stop staring at Louis’ mouth when he talked. Both would be extremely helpful in demonstrating to Louis’ granddad that they were functional and responsible adults. Who had full control of their libidos.

Harry hip checked him as they walked, still grinning like he held all the secrets to the world. “Hey, Lou?”

Louis sighed. “What.” He wasn’t even hungry. He should have let Harry take off his pants when he wanted to, fescue be damned.

“Wanna sneak out after Pop goes to bed and sleep in the barn?”

Louis felt the edges of his mouth tease upward, Harry’s lascivious eyebrow wiggle irresistible. He wasn’t sure which of them he stunned more when he lifted himself on tiptoe and kissed his parted lips.

At this angle, he could feel the sun as it bled across their skin, enveloping them both in its golden light. _Magic._

He kissed him again, because he could, before grabbing his fingers and pulling him toward the house. “You’re on.”


	11. Chapter 11

_“You didn’t text me.”_

_“I was very happily occupied.”_

_“Gross, Haz. TMI.”_

_“You have no idea.”_

 

_..._

_Where the fuck are you? Is Harry with you?_

Louis watched the line dancers skittering around the worn concrete floor in unison. About two-thirds of the way down the line, directly in front of the band and nestled between Ned Freeley (the farmer whose land abutted Pop’s) and Mrs. Jones (Louis’ 7th grade English teacher), was Harry. Harry, shimmying to the band’s raucous cover of Billy Ray Cyrus’ Achy Breaky Heart. Louis had laughed at Harry’s awkward (but efficient) lesson from Ned on the dance’s simple steps, and then become instantly mesmerized by the sight of his cute fucking tush twisting and turning and casually tormenting Louis with yet another flagrant reminder that he had yet to get his hands down Harry’s stupid tight jeans.

Instead of a nice, quiet dinner on the farm, Pop had dragged them down to the masonic lodge for the monthly potluck and live music. (With his full head of hair and pretty farm, Pop was in-demand at community social events. Which was all well and good and adorable until Louis caught him flirting with Mrs. Jones behind the cookie table. And no, Louis did _not_ need the vivid and awkward mental picture of the woman who used to screech at him about dangling participles nestled all up in his granddad’s business. With a pecan praline for God’s sake.)

_Lou._

Louis’ phone buzzed again and he considered his options: ignore Liam’s increasingly persistent text messages, lie, or tell him the truth and potentially suffer about a year of teasing. He had, after all, essentially kidnapped NASA’s first ever high-stakes tourist.

He glanced up when a shadow fell across his lap to find Harry grinning down at him, face flushed from exertion and holding two glasses of bright pink punch. He must have been partaking of said punch before he got to Louis, because his lips matched the rose-hued liquid and his eyes were suspiciously mellow, each sweep of his lashes a languid slide up and down.

 _Christ almighty_.

“You might want to slow down on that,” Louis said, swallowing the urge to drag Harry onto his lap and suck the punch from his tongue. “Ned’s punch is lethal. He keeps a pretty sophisticated still setup in the back of his horse barn.”

“I like it.” Harry waggled his eyebrows and Louis couldn’t resist; he took both glasses and set them on the chair beside him and then used Harry’s wrists as anchors to pull himself up until they were nose to nose (or, nose to chin, more like). He hesitated for a split-second, giving Harry time to retreat, but only getting an eager and sharply indrawn breath in return.

On second thought, maybe he should have a swig of that punch.

Louis grabbed the fullest glass and downed it in one go, his pulse so goddamn erratic it was John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt-ing through his veins, and, well, life was short and he was horny and Harry, apparently, was willing.

He dragged him behind him, through the side door, down the faded carpet of the hall, past the instrument storage and the janitor’s closet, until they were safely ensconced in the back room where Louis used to take piano lessons from Tiffanie Barlow. 

Louis didn’t even bother with the light. Harry’s breath smelled like home-stilled liquor and his skin like the Irish Spring Pop kept in the upstairs bathroom, and Louis was drowning.

He shoved him into the dusty, faded wallpaper and kissed him.

Harry, senses apparently dulled by the punch, took a beat to react but when he did he grunted and slipped down the wall, not enough to break the contact of their mouths, but enough to grab Louis under the ass and lift him.

Louis had been weightless just yesterday in the simulator.

This was entirely different.

He was flipped around and slammed against the cheap, hollow-core door, his teeth rattling in his skull, or maybe that was his morals, because they had apparently fled right along with his common sense.

Good riddance.

Harry’s hands were fairly engaged, what with holding Louis in place and whatnot, so he was evidently putting all his energy into kissing Louis. He slipped his tongue between Louis’ lips, demanding and thorough, and ground his hips into him in a little roll reminiscent of the line dance, and _God,_ Louis was shattering, breaking into a million glittering pieces of light and scattering to the four corners of the universe. _Appropriate._

He had meant to get his mouth, his hands, on Harry, had pulled him into this dark back room to make him feel at least some of what Louis was feeling, to make him pay for the ceaseless agony of just fucking being in his presence every day, but there was nothing— _Louis_ was nothing, not anymore. His entire existence had been reduced to hot sparks of electrical impulses, centered around the fingertips pressed into his ass and the mouth so skillfully devouring his own.    

He whimpered and Harry held him tighter before releasing him, negotiating Louis’ legs until his feet were relatively steady on the floor, and then dropped to his knees.

The back of Louis’ head hit the door with a _thud._

Harry’s fingers deftly worked the button and zip of Louis’ jeans, as slick and smooth as a hot knife through butter, like he’d been doing this for years, like Louis wasn’t shaking apart before his very eyes. The first touch of his mouth had Louis’ head knocking back again, hard, and Harry moaned, the reverberations of _that_ making Louis’ knees buckle. Harry wrapped an arm around his knees and held him in place, immobilizing him save for Louis’ hands which gripped Harry’s hair too hard, buried in the silky strands, but Harry didn’t seem to notice.

He squeaked a warning, the finish line looming embarrassingly fast, and then nearly blacked out when Harry swallowed him down his throat in response.

He was frozen, paralyzed there against the door, trapped in a haze of blissful white noise, until Harry gently disentangled his fingers from his curls and lowered his hands. Then he wiped his mouth, so casual and calm, that Louis stared at him for a beat before pitching forward and crashing into him, knocking them both to the floor, falling onto Harry’s chest and kissing him desperately.  

Harry broke first, laughing behind the shower of kisses Louis was placing on his lips, his nose, his cheeks, holding him tightly in place, like he was content to lie here in the dark, on a dirty piano room floor and let Louis slobber all over his face for all eternity.

Dumb bastard.

Louis, overcome with a deep and abiding emotion that he would never, ever name, tucked his nose into Harry’s neck, just under his ear, and breathed.

Harry squeezed him after a moment. “You all right?”

Louis nodded, stubbornly hiding, not ready to meet Harry’s eyes, or his own dick—which mocked him, free and untethered, probably still damp from Harry’s mouth. He shuddered.

“Not to spoil this really beautiful moment,” Harry said slowly, running his fingers up and down Louis’ spine, “but I would really love it if you’d suck my dick now.”

Louis snorted and lifted up on his elbows. Harry’s eyes were sparkling in the dim light of the moon. “I’m not sucking you off on this dirty floor, Harold. I have standards.”

Harry cocked one brow. “That’s odd. Your dick didn’t have standards five minutes ago.”

Louis shrugged, twisting his bottom lip between his teeth and trying desperately not to let everything he was feeling pour out of his eyes and mouth like rainbow-tinted honey. “My dick and I don’t always see eye to eye.”

Harry grabbed two handfuls of Louis’ ass and squeezed. “Watch your tongue. Your dick and I are non-negotiable.” His grip softened into a languid massage. “Among other things.”

“Yeah?” Louis was not purring.

“Hmmm.” Harry stretched up until he could place a damp kiss on the pulse point in Louis’ neck. “This. We’re an item.”

“Uh huh.” _Squirm_.

Harry sucked one of Louis’ earlobes into his mouth, sighing heavily in his ear. “And this. Also mine.”

Louis’ heart had grown wings and was trying valiantly to beat it’s way out of his chest. He scrambled to his feet, reaching for Harry’s wrist and dragging him up from the floor. Harry laughed at Louis’ accusatory glare when he bent over to swipe at his dirty knees. “That’s not obvious at all.”

Harry shrugged. “You started it.” He looked pointedly at Louis’ crotch. “Your fly’s open.”

“Shut up.” Louis hurriedly zipped his jeans, combing his fingers through his hair and hoping like hell they didn’t run into Pop before they made it back to the Jeep. He shoved Harry toward the door. “Move, Harold. I know a hay bale with your name on it.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

_"Hey, Gem."_

_"Yeah?"_

_"How did Neil Armstrong say he was sorry?"_

_"Oh God, is this some kind of sex-induced joke high?"_

_"He Apollo-gized!"_

_"I'm so uncomfortable right now."_

...

Louis didn't consider himself particularly romantic. Never had been. Oh, maybe there had been a time or two when he was young, chasing men too old and too cavalier with his wide-open heart—but Louis was older now, and wiser, and a bit jaded by life, and he just didn't see the point in romance. He didn't need it to enjoy himself, or others, and he didn't understand why anyone he chose to stick his dick in (or vice versa) might need it either. Especially after they got to the point where the end game was inevitable anyway.

But as he walked across the moonlit yard where he grew up, surrounded by all the things he held most dear, the bump of Harry's knuckles ever so gently against his own made Louis want things he hadn't wanted in a long, long time.

Harry was candlelight and slow dancing and sweeping romantic overtures with too much violin. That Harry could probably haul him up against the nearest stall and fuck him brainless made no goddamn difference; Louis wanted it to be more than that, more than a quick lay in the chaff and the dirt, more than a night fueled by Ned's moonshine. More than the distant jangle of a cowboy's spurs as he climbed into his pickup truck and sped away when he thought Louis was sleeping.

Harry deserved better, and a secret forgotten part of Louis thought maybe _he_ deserved better too.

The scent of fresh-baled hay and sour milk slammed into Louis as they neared the barn door, a sense memory that had him swallowing a lump and blinking away wetness. "Harry, wait."

Harry stared down at him, a smile curling at the edge of his mouth, the kind of sexy smirk Louis had been aggressively fighting since the day Harry first waltzed into his gym.

"Nervous?" Harry asked.

 _Terrified,_ Louis thought, but didn't say. Couldn't say. He toyed with Harry's fingers instead, desperate for something to ground him, finally shaking his head with an embarrassed laugh. "Necking in the hay is for teenagers."

Harry shrugged, gaze trained on Louis' face, careful and calm. "Apt, since I always feel about sixteen when I'm with you."

Louis wondered if the stars were actuallydancing in Harry's eyes or if that was an illusion brought on by nostalgia and sheer unbridled lust. "No sixteen year old ever sucked my cock the way you did," he joked, then immediately cringed at his rather horrific attempt at levity. _This is why he didn't do romance!_

Harry frowned. "Are you being crude because you _don't_ want to fuck me, or because you do?"

"I want—" Louis stopped and squeezed Harry's hand again, wondering what the hell he _did_ want. Ten minutes ago he wanted to ride Harry like the mechanical bull down at the Electric Cowboy. But now?

"Lou?" 

Harry stepped ever closer, his scent encircling him, tangling him up and obliterating twenty-plus years of reminiscence. The deeply quiet timbre of his voice did things to Louis' stomach, beautiful, twisty, heart-stuttering things, and it came again, before he was ready. 

" _Lou._ What do you want?"

Louis swallowed, and then swallowed again, because what kind of question was that? What did he want? _What the actual fuck._

Harry twisted his fingers from Louis' grasp, sliding his hand around Louis' wrist and aligning their palms.

It was the kind of gesture that told Louis that Harry _was_ romantic, of course he was, but also that he was interested in Louis regardless, still wanted him, even if Louis remained an awkward, angry, sometimes unrepentant asshole who couldn't even manage to kiss his—his—his _whatever_ Harry was, in the moonlight, half drunk on home-stilled whiskey and what felt suspiciously like love.

"I want you to sing to me," Louis said, and it wasn't what he meant to say at all, hadn't even been aware he'd been thinking it (although his playlists of late had featured more than their fair share of a raspy baritone). He couldn't quite suppress a shiver at the thought of that voice, those eyes, the whole of Harry, focused on him and him alone.

Harry's half smile grew, spreading across his face like a sunrise, and he began to back away, away from the barn and toward the house, tugging Louis by the hand, and saving him. Probably saving them both.

In the house, Harry went right to where Pop's guitar sat tucked behind a rocker near the fireplace, such a fixture in the living room that Louis hadn't even noticed it, but of course, Harry had. He grabbed it, never releasing Louis at all, pulling him down the hall and towards his childhood bedroom, where all of Louis' hopes and dreams, both disastrous and fortuitous, had flourished and grown, making him the man he was today. Louis wanted to dig in his heels, panicking at the thought of being exposed in so many terrifying ways, of Harry seeing the faded gold _Runner Up_ trophies and the state fair ribbons and the geeky posters of rockets and space. The shelf behind his bed held Star Trek figurines and a tatty collection of Thor comics, bits and pieces of Louis' life tucked in between snapshots of Pop and his horses, and dog-eared paperbacks.

It was all of Louis, every tiny scrap of what made him who he was, and who he was no more, and it ripped him open, shredding whatever was left of his self-imposed impenetrable shell when Harry swung open the door and dragged him inside.

In the darkness, with Harry's lips brushing his, warm fingers teasing under the hem of his tee, it was easy to let the nerves and the anxiety bleed away. He grabbed a fistful of Harry's shirt and twisted, forcibly pushing him backward until he fell onto the bed, one forearm flexing in the moonlight as he fought to keep the guitar aloft.

"Sing," Louis said.

Harry's answering smile crushed the last of Louis' inhibitions.

He kicked off his shoes as soft chords filled his childhood bedroom, then climbed over about a mile of Harry's outstretched legs, eventually straddling his lap as close as he dared, rubbing damp palms on the tight black denim. Harry didn't meet his eyes at first, watching his own fingers, making Louis wonder if his chest was unbearably tight too, a million different things battering him from all angles, making it hard to catch his breath. The smell of Harry's faded cologne, the whinny of a faraway horse, the sharp bite of primitive liquor on his tongue, the flexing of Harry's strong thighs—it was overwhelming but also fucking amazing and suddenly, Louis wanted Harry's eyes on him.

He lifted the hem of his shirt, slowly, slowly, trying to work into a rhythm to match the soft cadence of the song, an impromptu striptease that caught Harry's gaze between one slow blink and the next, ensnaring it so tightly Louis couldn't completely hide his smile. _Gotcha._

Harry sang, and Louis stripped, one the consummate performer, never faltering, the other fighting goosebumps and lungs suddenly devoid of air. It was only when Louis lifted up on his knees to shimmy out of his jeans that Harry missed a chord, swaying forward to catch his mouth mid lyric, all hot eyes and decisive tongue and probably ruining Louis for anyone else, ever.

Someone had the presence of mind to set Pop's guitar on the floor.

Louis was ninety percent sure it wasn't him.

The sheets were soft and sweet when Harry gently lowered him to the bed, smelling of sunshine and fresh-mown grass, but Louis grunted in protest, the only vocalization he trusted himself with in the moment. This was supposed to be his time, _his_ turn; he had dreamed about breaking Harry apart and putting him back together for weeks, and no amount of sex hair and love songs was going to deny him the pleasure.

"Let me," he breathed, batting back a butterfly swarm and a head full of things he normally kept locked away in the dark recesses of his mind and heart. "Haz, let me."

Harry didn't seem to notice his complete lack of composure, or maybe he did and was gentleman enough to ignore the ceaseless tremble in Louis body, because he nodded and cupped his cheek before lying back and pulling Louis over him. Louis straddled him again with a grin, grinding down a few times just to watch the fire light Harry's eyes, and then made quick work of what few buttons remained fastened on the front of his shirt.

Harry's skin was baby smooth, and he shivered as Louis traced over the inked art with one finger.

He cursed, a breathless _Fuck,_  when Louis followed his hands with his mouth.

He didn't say anything after that, neither did, not for a long while. There was soft laughter when Louis discovered Harry was ticklish along his ribs, and a hiss of pleasure when their naked skin met for the very first time. There was whining when the teasing drew on too long, and one particularly heartfelt moan that required a quick but thorough kiss to shush. There were muffled snickers when the joyful song of the bed springs initially filled the room. There was quiet encouragement and gentle reassurance and warm, damp air shared between open mouths as they panted their way through one climax, then two.

And after, as they lay cocooned together, as easily as lovers who had been together for far longer, the still, dark loveliness of it pierced Louis deep inside. He knew instinctively things would never be the same, and it hurt for a fast, brutal second, bittersweet and unforgiving, but it faded just as quickly when Harry kissed him fervently, slurring sleepy nonsense into his hair.

Louis lay awake long after Harry drifted off, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his torso, pressing one palm gently against his breastbone, desperate to memorize the faint flutter of his heartbeat under his skin.


End file.
